


Holy Branches

by voxophone



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Childhood Trauma, Circle of Magi, Dysfunctional Family, Gen, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Ostwick Circle, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Self-Harm, The Trevelyan Family - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-12
Updated: 2019-03-03
Packaged: 2019-10-26 17:15:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17750123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/voxophone/pseuds/voxophone
Summary: When the Circles of Magi collapse, shy and skittish Fennec Trevelyan struggles to find his way in an unfamiliar world. Reconciling with his family sets him on a course that brings him to the Conclave, and from there to the Inquisition.But he is far from the heroic figure that the world needs.A story of dysfunctional families, and of fear and what it causes. Of trauma and pain, and wounds that do not heal easily.





	1. Chapter 1 - Wasteland

“Do I dare

Disturb the universe?

In a minute there is time

For visions and revisions which a minute will reverse”

\- T.S Eliot, _The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock_

 

When the Ostwick Circle of Magi falls, it does so quietly, without fanfare. There is no fighting, no blood spilled. Most of the mages leave, clustered in the same small groups that they studied and ate their meals with. Some of them are filled with the spirit of rebellion, seeking justice and adventure in equal spades. Most are simply curious of what the world is like beyond the tower.

Others stay. The elderly, the tranquil, the children without loving homes to return to. The ones not ready for adventure, or for war. Not even for dreams. They are a part of the tower, just as much as its brick and mortar. As every uneven step in the spiraling staircases.

When the last of the mages leave, Fennec is not among them. He is curled up under the blankets in his bunkbed, tearing through the pages of the same treatise on applications of exotic herbs that he was reading before anyone in Ostwick heard about the vote for independence.

The only real difference between now and then is that he usually studies in the library. That at this time in the afternoon, the dorms are usually full of his fellow apprentices. Gossiping, studying, trying to get a nap before heading up to the roof to study the stars at night. And there will be no tests on his understanding of the text. No early morning lectures or seminars. His teachers are gone. and with them their lesson plans and homework.

Yet Fennec is studying, with the same diligence as before.

There is a knock on the bed frame. Fennec startles, dropping his heavy tome into his lap. He hadn’t noticed the templar’s approach. Despite the fact that she is in full armor, the heavy plate rustling with every step.

“You’re not going with the others, then?” Emily asks.

Fennec shakes his head.

“I’m sure uncle wouldn’t mind if you went home. He writes me all the time you know, asking about you.”

“You never said, before,” he says, wondering _why_ but not quite knowing how to phrase it.

Emily scratches at the back of her head, and a few strands of hair from her hastily tied hair bun come loose.

“I…I’m sorry. It seemed unfair to mention it, when I know you wouldn’t be allowed to read any of his letters. Or write back. I didn’t want to taunt you with it.”

“It’s fine,” Fennec says. “I haven’t thought about home in ages, anyway.”

He knows his father must have cared about him, since he sent Fennec’s older cousin to the templars not long after he gave up Fennec to the circle. When Emily first arrived, he had pestered her with questions of home, begging her to break him out and take him back. His longing for his family had been a desperate, wild thing, clawing at his heart like a feral beast.

But it’s been over a decade since those days. The beast is domesticated. He has lived with it for so long that is has blended into the background, rarely seeking him out.

“I could take you there, if you want. I’m not going with the rest of the Order. Not that many of us are. To be honest, nobody really wants to fight,” Emily says.

“I…I don’t know.”

“Think about it. I don’t think you can stay here forever. Once the food runs out, there won’t be any more deliveries. I don’t know what’s going to happen to the kids or the really old mages,” she says, a slight quivering to her lips.

She sighs, as if exhaling will release the pressure that they must both be feeling. She has given voice to the worries that Fennec hasn’t let himself linger on, opting instead to fill his thoughts with how to best tweak recipes for various herbal remedies.

It had been easier not to think on it, to lock himself away far from the fear and uncertainty.

“Everything’s a mess,” Emily continues. “But I promised uncle I’d take care of you, and I don’t break my promises.”

“Why ask, if you’re going to drag me home, regardless of what I want?” he asks, and then snaps his hands over his mouth. But it’s too late to retract his outburst. Tears are already gathering in the corner of his eyes.

He doesn’t understand _why_.

All he knows is that the word home feels wrong in his mouth. He can’t picture the place as it was anymore. It’s like the fade, distorted and surreal, lacking something essential that he can’t define, but that he feels deep in his bones.

“No!” Emily yells, and there are tears running down her cheeks too. She clenches her hands into fists. “I’m not taking your choice away, nor did Bann Trevelyan ask me to. Do you think so little of us?”

“I’m sorry,” he says, shuffling backwards further into his bed. Making himself smaller. “I don’t know what came over me.”

Emily smiles then, though it doesn’t reach her eyes. “Maybe I should be glad you’re at least _feeling_ something. You’re too quiet, always have been since you came here. Shy and skittish like a fennec fox.”

The nickname she once gave him is cold on her tongue, an insult rather than the fondness it used to signify.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he repeats, and then it becomes a mantra. He rocks back and forth, whispering his apology over and over until Emily places her hand on his shoulder. He flinches away from her, even if she is safe. Even if she has never hurt him before.

It’s another betrayal, just like his outburst before. Like his quiet nature, turning her away when she only means well.

The only thing to do is to say he’s sorry. Even if she doesn’t accept it. Or believe him.

She is speaking again, but her words are far away. He looks up to read her lips but facing her is too much and he buries his face in his hands. His legs want to run but can’t decide on a direction. They never can.

In the tower, there’s nowhere _to_ run. He learned that the hard way.

(The Ostwick Circle of Magi is a quiet place. A dull one, according to most. There are no malifecarum, no uprisings. No overt abuse or cruelty. But beneath the surface, darker truths lurk. Nobody leaves a sanctuary for a life of uncertainty, if it’s truly a safe haven.)

Before he understands what is happening, Emily is grabbing at his hands. “Don’t do that!” she yells.

It takes several seconds before the pain registers.

_Oh._

He can feel the blood running down his cheeks, thicker than tears. He looks at his hands, and they are red with it. He didn’t know his fingernails were so sharp.

“I didn’t mean to upset you, not like this,” Emily says, still clutching his bloodied hands. “I’m not angry with you, kiddo, not really. It’s not your fault the world has turned to shit. I only wish you could trust me enough to…” she says, her words trailing off into nothing.

“I do trust you,” he mumbles, not trusting himself to speak above a whisper.  

It’s not a lie.

He has no reason to distrust her, except for the insignia of the flaming sword on her armor. But she took up that mantle for his sake, or at the very least his father’s. To be a protector, rather than a jailer.

It’s not her fault that she failed.

“You should heal yourself, so you don’t risk scarring,” Emily says softly, as if she’s talking to a young child. She releases her death grip around his hands. Trusting that he will do no more harm.

He moves them over his face, and his flesh knits together under their faint glow. He is whole again, though the blood remains.

“I guess we should go home,” he says.

…

Before they can leave, there is the matter of packing. Emily gives him a worn rucksack and tells him to bring whatever he wants. That she will take care of the necessities.

His task is to be one of sentimentality. Or rather, of picking over the bones of a still-warm corpse.

The shelves in the library have already been thinned out when he starts scouring over them. He runs his fingers across the spines of the tomes, and picks his mementos based on nostalgia rather than utility. The first book he read when he arrived at the Circle, thrust into his hands by an impatient enchanter with no time to coddle homesick children. A treatise on creation magic that he’d practically stolen during his early teens, and already knows by heart. A well-worn and hidden copy of _The Tale of the Champion_ that had officially been a banned book, but still found its way into the Circle’s library, though it was always impossible to find.

Fennec only stumbles on it by luck. He’s never read it before, only heard rumors of the heresy within its pages. He’s seen the small sparks of revolution that it birthed among his peers - the ones who left first, to join forces with the rebels. He hesitates before taking it, feeling as if he’s stealing a relic. But he can’t resist the temptation.

Before he knows it, the rucksack is heavy with books. There is room for little else, yet Fennec wanders the halls of his dying home in search of more. He’s never been attached to things before, having never been allowed to keep much as his own despite his noble birth. Now he wants his memories of this place to be solid. As proof, though _of what_ he isn’t sure.

He takes half-burned candles. A lute with missing strings. A worn chess set. Every pawn a small reminder of what his years here have taught him. _You are expendable, mage._

He finds his way to his old classrooms, desks now covered in dust. In the last few weeks before people started leaving, not many still bothered attending their lessons. Fennec did, until his teachers stopped coming.

He’d begged them to let him undertake his Harrowing, before everything collapsed. To get a chance to prove that he was safe enough to be around, to be called a mage rather than an apprentice. They’d told him there was no longer any need for it. That the ritual itself was cruelty, and that life would give him far kinder opportunities to prove himself.  

Enchanter Lydia had confided in him that in her eyes, he could already claim the title of mage. That his talent for spirit healing was enough to prove that he could safely interact with any beings of the fade.

Fennec still isn’t sure if he should believe her.

She doesn’t know of his other studies. The ones inspired by curiosity rather than textbooks and lectures. Fennec was always the model student, when observed. Left to his own devices, his mind often wandered further than it should.

He’s reigned in those tendencies now, but only because he suffered for them. But if put to the test, he isn’t sure if he’d succeed. If he’d gotten the chance to be Harrowed, maybe he would have found the certainty his teachers claimed to have in him.

Maybe he would have found worth.

For now, whatever he can fill his rucksack with will have to suffice.

He meets Emily by the apprentice dormitories when he’s done packing. She’s leaning against the wall, two huge packs resting by her feet.

“All packed?” she asks, when she sees his approach.

Fennec nods and follows her as she picks up her bags and starts heading toward the entrance hall. He always found it peculiar that the apprentices resided closest to their most obvious means of escape. As if the lure of freedom was being dangled before the most homesick of the mages, daring them to give it a try. To reap the consequences when they inevitably fail.

When they walk out of the gates, the sun is setting. The clouds are shifting in hues of orange and purple, and all the more beautiful to look at with the wind in his face. Although he’s leaving in the company of a templar, Fennec feels as if he’s committing a heinous crime.

…

Emily sets off in a steady pace but is soon forced to slow down to allow Fennec a chance to keep up. He’s used to running up and down stairs, but not much else. It’s an often-told joke that the only reason mages are kept in towers is to force them to exercise, lest their bodies grow weak while they sit and study. Evidently, such minimal exercise is not enough to keep up a brisk walk for several hours. Fennec tires after only two.

“It’s only an hour or so until we reach Ostwick proper, and then another two to the estate,” Emily says.

To his tired feet, it sounds impossibly far.

“Will we stop to rest?” he asks.

She chuckles. “Yes, when you get hungry. I’ve packed bread and cheese. But if we walk through the night, we can be at the estate by early morning. I’d prefer not to dawdle. My sword should be enough to protect us from any danger, but I’d prefer not running into anyone at all.”

“But if we go through the city, isn’t that impossible to avoid?” Fennec points out. The thought of Emily needing to brandish her blade sends shivers down his spine.

He isn’t carrying a staff or wearing robes, but he feels as if his appearance is damning enough even without them. As if, at the mere sight of him, people will freeze or flee in horror. Or fight, to rid the world of his wickedness.

“Maybe so, but fewer than we would in daylight,” Emily admits. “Either way, we will be fine. Just don’t cast any spells.”

“I didn’t plan to,” Fennec says. He scowls at her, but she elbows him lightly before the expression has time to fully take shape on his face.

“Your father will be happy to see you,” she says, changing the subject. “So will Maxwell and Evelyn, no doubt.”

She doesn’t mention his mother.

Fennec can only hope he will not be alone when he faces her.

He still remembers the horrified look in her eyes when she’d caught him bent over the small tortoiseshell kitten, crying over its ravaged body. She had been his favorite. The one he’d been given responsibility for after the stable cat gave birth. An eagle had attacked her, and he’d chased it away. But it had been to no avail. When he picked her up from the ground, the kitten had been gasping for breath, already close to death’s door. Then, as he held her to his chest and wished to reverse the damage, the wounds had closed.

His mother hadn’t screamed in terror, but her eyes had betrayed her fear. Then, they’d turned cold. She’d given him one last look that he hadn’t been able to discern, before walking away. After that they’d never spoken again. His father had come to the garden and placed his large hand on Fennec’s head. He’d told him he’d done well to save the kitten, but Fennec knew that he hadn’t. His father had been crying as he praised him.

“Are you alright, Fennec?” Emily says. At the sound of her voice, he snaps back to the present. “We can stop and rest if you need to,” she continues, perhaps mistaking his solemnity for weariness.

“I’m fine.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. Just thinking about everyone, is all. Will they even remember me?”

“The twins could hardly forget you, now could they? Max and Evie had seven years to tease and spoil you. I know it left a hole in their lives when you left.”

“It’s been so long since then. Sometimes, I think I can’t remember their faces,” Fennec says.

“I’m glad you will get a chance to rediscover them, then. If something good can come out of this chaos, I might sleep a little better. In a way, I can’t I say I blame any of the mages for wanting to be free. I miss our family, and I’m allowed to write them, and to visit once a year. You get none of that. I only wish you could all leave peacefully. But without templars to protect you…” Emily trails off into silence.

Fennec doesn’t blame her for not following her line of thought to the end. He doesn’t want to think about how much blood will be spilled either. Already, he’s heard rumors of skirmishes between the free mages and their former guards. Of mages clashing with ordinary people, frightened into violence.

His side of the conflict can wreathe so much destruction. Fennec’s own brand of magic can easily be twisted into evil too. He has to extend his hand into the fade for aid to heal the most severe injuries. The spirits he seeks out sometimes turn out to be demons in disguise. If he misjudges only one…

And that is only what his sanctioned school of magic might bring if wielded clumsily. The rest of what he can do, he doesn’t want to examine too closely as it is.

“I’m sorry it turned out the way it did,” he says. “I didn’t want to leave.”

The Circle may not have been a refuge, but within its walls he’d only had to live with a quiet kind of fear. One that looms overhead like a cloud, threatening a storm that will only come if you deserve it. Out in the world, the fear is not only in the sky, but in every blade of grass. Surrounding him from every direction. Magnified in every detail that brushes past his senses. In every step he takes on the road toward Ostwick, and a half-forgotten home.

 


	2. Chapter 2 - Homecoming

“Dreams, like coins down a well

Till I realized I was dumb for believin’

To the bird with no flight

The skies don’t ever offer respite”

 - Radical Face, _Everything Costs_

 

On the road, they only pass one merchant caravan that barely acknowledges them. In Ostwick, Fennec clings to Emily as they walk past city guardsmen and loud drunks strolling through the streets. The city smells feel foreign to his nostrils, and the vastness of Ostwick overwhelms his vision, even when draped in darkness. Emily walks closer to him then, centering his focus. She knows him well enough to ward off most of his panic and quizzes him on plant names in all the languages he knows. In Common, Orlesian, in Elven and Old Tevene.

Emily was right in her estimation and they reach the estate in the early morning hours. Nobody is there to greet them, except two sleepy guardsmen.

“I didn’t have time to send word ahead,” Emily tells him, as they approach the gates to the Trevelyan estate. “I thought it more important to arrive swiftly.”

Fennec is too exhausted to do more than nod at her words. He isn’t sure if the feeling in his chest is anticipation or apprehension, or an unholy mixture of both.

Emily approaches the gate guards without ceremony, and they step aside to let them in, apparently recognizing her with such ease that they don’t ask any questions. 

Fennec takes in the visage of his old home slowly, trying to reconcile it with his memories. The manor itself rests on top of a hill. Bathed in the cold sunlight of dawn, it appears more magical than in any of his dreams. It lacks the flourish of Orlesian-style architecture, but stands proudly, nonetheless. Sturdy, yet elegant in its simplicity.

Down the hill, and to the right of the gates where he still stands speechless, are the stables and several small outbuildings for the servants. Here, he spent many childhood days, learning how to ride horses with the help of his sister Evelyn. He remembers her snickering at how tiny he looked on his pony, though she wasn’t much bigger on her own.

To the left are the guard barracks. They look smaller than he remembered them. The guards themselves less fierce, compared to the templars in the tower.

Emily tugs his sleeve, urging him to follow her. Fennec forces his eyes to look where he’s going, instead of fretfully jumping from place to place, trying to take it all in at once.

“Let’s hope your father is still a morning person,” Emily says.

…

Bann Bernard Trevelyan is having breakfast in his study when they grace the halls of his manor. Emily interrupts a servant from her cleaning, and the elven girl runs off to tell her lord of their arrival. She returns quickly and brings them upstairs.

Fennec walks behind Emily, and fidgets with the straps of his rucksack to distract himself from being overwhelmed by the sound of his heartbeat thumping louder and louder.

He doesn’t have it in him to even peek over her shoulder when they enter his father’s study. But then Emily stands aside, and he can no longer hide behind her.

His father looks up from behind his desk, and his eyes flare up in wonder as he looks over Fennec. The hair at his temples is grey, and there are crow’s feet in the corner of his eyes. Aside from that, he looks just as Fennec remembered.

“You’ve grown,” he says.

Then he stands up, and before Fennec knows what is happening, his father has enveloped him in a bear hug. He awkwardly hugs back, patting his father’s back a few times. When he’s finally released, his father takes a step back and gives him another once-over.

“And you’re too thin. I thought at the very least you’d make sure he got fed, Emily,” Bann Trevelyan says, finally acknowledging his niece.

“Hey! It’s not my fault he’s too engrossed in his books to remember food exists,” she protests.

His father chuckles but can’t seem to be able to focus on her for long. His gaze shifts back to Fennec immediately.

“Luan,” he says, and it’s been so long since anyone has called Fennec by his birth name that it barely registers as _his_. “How I’ve missed you, my son.”

“I…I’ve missed you too, father,” he says.

It is the thing to say, after all. No matter that it’s been years since it rang true.

“I will set you up in your old bedroom. I did not change it in your absence,” he says. “Once you’ve rested, the rest of the family shall welcome you home properly.”

The elven servant reappears, and gestures for him to follow. When Emily doesn’t join him, he hesitates in the doorway.

“Go ahead without me,” she says. “We’ll see each other later.”

Then she turns toward his father, dismissing him.

Fennec trails behind the elven girl, too shy to ask her any questions. The path she takes through the manor is familiar, but every step feels like he’s walking deeper into a dreamscape. The painting on the walls of the Trevelyans of old look down on him in judgement as he follows her through wide hallways and up another set of stairs.

His room is on the top floor, at the very end of a corridor. The girl opens the door and holds it open for him.

“There’s a bath drawn up in the adjoining bathroom. If you need anything else, I’ll be just downstairs,” she says, before rushing off, giving him no time to thank her.

Fennec remains standing outside the room, _his_ room., eyes peeled on the floor.

After a while he starts to feel silly. He takes a deep breath and walks through the open door.

His father had spoken truly. The room is exactly as Fennec left it, down to every last detail. The four-poster bed is neatly made with the same deep green linens as before, and covered with finely brocaded pillows, except for the one in the middle that bears Evelyn’s sloppy needlepoint.  

His desk is covered in papers, not disturbed since he last sat down to use it. He doesn’t remember what he’d been working on, but it’s probably homework or some of his early attempts at drawing animals.

Fennec sets his rucksack down next to the large trunk at the end of the bed. Out of curiosity, he decides to look if this too, is as before. The trunk opens with a creak to reveal his old toys. Carved wooden figurines of dragons and wyverns, toy soldiers, a misshaped wooden sword that’s yet another homemade gift from his sister. He picks up each item in turn and runs his fingers over them, removing the thin layers of dust that cover them. Then he places them back into the trunk and shuts the lid.

On the surface the room is too clean to have been prepared for him in a rush. There are no cobwebs in the corners or any dust coating the floor. His father must have ordered his staff to maintain the room in his absence, but not to disturb the traces of its old inhabitant. Even though he could hardly have expected his youngest son to ever return.

Something churns deep inside his stomach at the thought.

Fennec sits down on the side of the bed. The exhaustion from his journey is still there in the background, blurry compared to the sharp shadows cast by his emotional upheaval. But if he seeks out the sensation, he can pinpoint every blistered toe and sore muscle.

He should probably take that bath. Sleep might be too much to ask for, but he can wash off the sweat and grime from the road. It might make him feel a little more like he still belongs here.

…

Emily comes to collect him from his room a few hours later.

She’s out of her bulky templar armor for the first time he can remember in years. In place of it, she’s wearing a short-sleeved blouse, paired with dark trousers. Despite her muscular shape, Fennec can’t help but think that she looks small.

His thoughts must show on his face because Emily grimaces. “Yeah, I know. It feels really weird for me too. I’ve gotten used to lugging all that metal around.”

“Are you out of uniform for good, then?”

“I don’t know yet. It’s too soon to say what will happen what with all the infighting in the order. Either way, let’s go. Everyone’s waiting in the sitting room.”

Fennec falls into step behind her, wishing she was still in her armor so there would be a bigger silhouette to give him cover.  

The sight that meets them in the sitting room is one that will likely remain sharp in his mind forever. The family is posed like in a portrait, arranged on couches in stiff, aristocratic leisure.

His parents are sitting side by side, their expressions in sharp contrast to each other. His father wears a warm smile, while his mother’s face is arranged in cold, neutral lines. She looks in his direction but doesn’t meet his eyes, staring instead right past him into the distance. As if the space he occupies is tainted.

On the other couch are the twins. Maxwell is impossible to read, calm and collected to the point where he might as well be a statue. Fennec barely recognizes him. Gone is the mischievous boy he once knew, replaced by a tall and broad man. His russet brown hair is trimmed short, rather than the unruly mop of hair he used to have, and his face is framed by a neatly cropped beard.

Evelyn, on the other hand, remains much the same. She’s wiggling in her seat, as if struggling to stay in it. Her hair is a wild mess, curls spilling out of her long braid like coiling snakes. She’s dressed in simple, sturdy clothes more suited for a commoner than a nobleman’s daughter. She’s the only one to look out of place in the portrait, breaking the image of their collective, perfect grace.

There is one more person than he expected, seated between the twins. A girl, maybe ten years of age. She has Evelyn’s curly hair, but hers is tamed into an immaculate hairstyle. She looks at him with wide eyes, just as disbelieving as him, but not attempting to hide it.

Before anyone has a chance to break the silence, Evelyn leaps up from the couch in one fluid motion and barrels past Emily to pick him up and spin him around in a back-breaking hug. She doesn’t let go of him once she sets him down but brings him closer instead.

“Thought you’d be wearing a skirt,” she whispers into his ear.

For a split-second, the joke is enough to break the tension and he laughs into her hair.

Then she releases him from her embrace, tugging him along to take a seat next to her on the couch. As he sits down, the atmosphere turns cold and sharp again, as if a hundred apprentices had cast winter’s grasp in unison.

“It’s good to see you again, brother,” Maxwell says, his voice cool and composed. As if he’s reading aloud from a book, not choosing his own words. Fennec wonders what emotions simmer beneath his politeness, or if this new version of his brother is statuesque down to his very soul.

“You as well,” he replies, used to replicating the tone of those around him.

“We’ve all missed you,” his father says, though a quick look around the room easily reveals his words to be untrue. Only Evelyn and Bann Trevelyan himself seem truly happy to see him.

“And I’m happy to finally introduce you to your sister, Cerise,” he continues, nodding to the young girl sat between the twins.

“Hi,” she says, still staring at him with her intense, blue eyes.

“I’m Luan,” he says, his old name rolling off his tongue awkwardly. “It’s nice to meet you.”

“They told me who you are,” she nods sagely. “But only today.”

At these words, Evelyn sneers at their mother, but she remains perfectly poised, not acknowledging the slight at all. It only makes Evelyn frown harder.

Cerise carries on speaking without noticing the interaction. “Father said you had to go away before I was born because you can do magic. Can you show me? I’ve _always_ wanted to see it.”

“I, uhm…”

Fennec looks back toward Emily, who has moved from where she was standing to sit on an armchair. She shrugs, as if telling him to go ahead if he wants to.

“I don’t think that would be proper,” his mother interjects, speaking up for the first time.

“Why not?” Evelyn protests, her muscles tensing as if she’s holding herself back from something more than defiant words. “I doubt he’ll burn the house down.”

“Even so...” his mother starts, but then his father places a hand on top of hers.

“No fighting, please,” he says.

His wife’s face sours for a moment, before slipping back into its previous cool façade. Evelyn snorts, but otherwise keeps quiet.  The tension between them is still a palpable, breathing thing. Nothing has been resolved, only delayed.

Bann Trevelyan turns to his youngest daughter. “Cerise, sweetheart, I’m sure Luan can show you another day, when he’s had more time to rest. Magic takes a lot of energy.”

Cerise pouts but doesn’t rise up to complain.

Before anything more can be said on the topic, two servants enter the room, each carrying large trays with tea and pastries. They set them down on the low table opposite the couches, then bow before taking their leave.

“Thank you,” Bann Trevelyan says. He pours a cup of tea for both himself and his wife, then gestures for the others to partake.

The afternoon tea begins in silence, as everyone collects pastries and fill their cups with tea. But after a while, everyone falls into shallow conversations, eager to avoid drawing attention to the druffalo in the room.

Fennec remains silent, an outside observer to the scene in front of him. He curls his hands around his cup of tea, despite the fact that it’s hot enough to burn him through the thin ceramic.

Then Evelyn nudges him with her elbow, causing some of the hot liquid to splash over the edge of the cup into his lap. He winces, and so does Evelyn, mouthing a quick sorry.

Then she smiles. “Lighten up, will you? I swear it won’t be this bad all the time.”

“Are you sure about that?”

“Oh yeah. I’ll keep you company, so don’t worry about the rest of the fuckers. And Cerise will love you forever after one teeny, tiny spell.”

“You’ll have to tell me what you’ve been up to since I left,” he says.

“Heh. Lots of mischief, if you can believe it. Me and Maxie tried to break you out not long after they took you away, but that obviously didn’t work out. And now he has a giant stick up his ass.”

“You really tried to break me out?” Fennec says, not sure whether to laugh or cry. They’d been _eleven_ when he was sent away, for Maker’s sake.

“Mhm. It was a good plan too, just poorly executed. Sorry about that, by the way. It would have been neat to get you back before you got all lanky and stuff.”

“It wasn’t so bad there, not all the time.”

Evelyn stares at him in disbelief. “You _liked_ being locked up?”

“Not at first. But you get used to it. I liked the studying, and the library was huge. We even had a small herb garden on the grounds, so we weren’t cooped up inside all the time.”

“You could go outside? Why didn’t you make a run for it?”

“The yard’s walled in,” Fennec shrugs. “Besides, it would have been pointless to try anything. They had my phylactery. I would have been dragged back, or worse, before I could get anywhere. And as I said, the Circle wasn’t so bad.”

“I can’t believe this,” Evelyn says, throwing up her hands in despair. “My little brother’s such a nerd that he enjoyed prison, because it was filled with books and plants.”

Fennec winces and readies himself for an onslaught of disapproval and outrage. But then Evelyn laughs and slaps his back. “Classic Luan,” she says.

“I mostly go by Fennec now,” he admits quietly.

“I can see why,” Evelyn smirks, wrestling him down and grabbing onto his ears. “You never quite grew into these, did you?”

“Hey!” He struggles against her hold, but Evelyn is stronger than him and easily keeps him trapped under her weight. Then he manages to shift, and they almost tumble off the couch. They catch themselves just in time to avoid disaster, giggling like children.

For a moment Fennec feels perfectly at home, like he never left in the first place.

Then he looks up and is met by the cold faces of his mother and older brother, looking down on their antics not with fond exasperation, but completely devoid of feeling. It’s like a slap to his face, dissolving any notion of belonging.

It shouldn’t hurt as much as it does.

He hasn’t missed these people in years. Didn’t want to come back here to face them in the first place. But now, surrounded by a past that in his absence has mutated into something foreign yet eerily familiar, he misses his old family more than ever before.


	3. Chapter 3 - Depth

“Everything you see,

Everything you see,

Can be measured, weighed or gauged

Just like the ones who will keep you company

All of the things that you’ll ever be

All of the things that you’ll ever be”

  - Portugal, The Man, _Everything You see (Kids Count Hallelujahs)_

 

In his dreams that night, the fade shapes itself into the herb garden at the Circle. At first Fennec isn’t aware that he’s dreaming, caught up in the task of planting seeds of Prophet’s Laurel. His hands are small but dexterous, dirt already lodged beneath each fingernail. In this dream, his body is that of his nine-year-old self. His growth reversed, along with his fears.

Fennec closes a mound of dirt around the seed, then covers it with his hand, as if sensing the living thing he just placed beneath it. He inhales, and with his intake of breath, the feeling intensifies until he can feel something sprouting from the seed, reaching upwards through the dirt. It pierces the surface, and he can suddenly feel the soft petals of a flower against his skin. 

Fennec lets go and looks at the flower in wonder. Entranced by a form of magic he didn’t know existed, but that is clearly within him.

Then the scene twists and he is older, though not by much. The garden still surrounds him, but it is autumn instead of spring. Rain is pouring down, but Fennec isn’t fazed by it, though his boots are muddy and the socks inside them are drenched. He is too wrapped up in wonder to care.

His hands are pressed against the trunk of a small apple tree. It no longer bears fruit and hasn’t in years. Its branches sag despite not being weighed down by more than crumpling, orange leaves. Fennec closes his eyes. He reaches through a barrier inside himself and for a moment he can see the tree in its full glory. Green leaves cover sprawling branches that carry supple, sweet apples. It’s as if it has a stronger, healthier counterpart in his mind. With only a nudge he can draw it out and make the tree reshape itself into that image. Fennec pushes his hands into the bark and lets the magic flow through them.

It’s not unlike healing a wound on a person.

Then, there is a large hand on his shoulder, twisting him around in one sharp, violent motion. As he’s dragged away, Fennec loses his connection to the apple tree. But before it’s gone, his magic spirals out of control and the tree grows beyond what he intended. Beyond what it can handle in only seconds. It turns monstrous. Cancerous. Bulbous growths bubble up from beneath the bark. The newly grown green leaves wither and fall off, raining down onto the ground along with rotten, misshapen apples.

Fennec gasps in horror. The hand on his shoulder tugs at him painfully. Just before the man can yell out his harsh words, Fennec realizes that he is dreaming. He remembers what the templar is going to say before the man speaks. The piercing, biting pain of his smite.

Just like that the illusion shatters. The blurry, green-tinged landscape of the fade fills his vision. In place of his old tormentor is a despair demon.

Fennec stares it down, despite the cold seeping out of its body, coating the very air around it. The wretched thing starts floating in a circle around him. Too fast for his eyes to follow without his feet stumbling on the ground.

“You’ll never forget,” it taunts him from behind. “You might as well give up before the pain taints everything.”

“I can live with a little pain,” Fennec says with as much confidence as he can, though he isn’t sure if his words ring true.

“Can you, though? The demon laughs and flitters further above him before swooping down like a bird of prey to land in front of him.

“I’m not debating this with you,” he mutters.

Then he closes his eyes.

He calls warmth to himself. Small glimpses of happiness. Emily teasing him as he studies in the Circle library. Enchanter Lydia smiling and praising him as she returns one of his essays. Evelyn, crushing his ribs as she spins him around in the air.

When he opens his eyes again, the demon is gone. No longer drawn to him. The only trace of it left behind is a thin layer of frost encircling the ground around him.

…

Fennec wakes up with a start at the sound of a knock on the door. He stumbles out of bed, shivering under a layer of cold sweat that has drenched his entire body. Before opening the door, he reaches for a throw blanket at the end of the bed and drapes it across his shoulders like a cape.

On the other side of the door stands Evelyn, holding a bottle of wine in one hand and two glasses in the other. Her smirk leaves her lips as she takes in the sight before her.

“You look like shit,” she states. There is no bite to her words, no criticism or overbearing worry.

“Thanks,” he says, running his hands through his hair to smooth it down where it stands up in tangled disarray.

Without further ado, Evelyn brushes past him and saunters into the room. She throws him a wine glass that he only barely catches. She laughs at his panicked expression.

“Let’s drink,” she says.

So, they do.

Alcohol wasn’t strictly forbidden in the Ostwick Circle, but the apprentices were heavily dissuaded from partaking. Fennec, who spent a lot of his time learning herbalism and potion making, knows that a lot of homebrewing went on in the alchemy labs. It was a bit of an open secret. Some of the more liberally minded templars even encouraged it, if they got to sneak a taste once in a while.

He tells Evelyn this as they drink, and she giggles.

“I thought they were all such serious sods, no offense to Emily, of course.”

“Some of the older ones were pretty strict. But most weren’t so bad. One templar even came up with ideas for new drink recipes. One of his suggestions inspired this really nice peach liquor.”

“Oh, that sounds good.”

Fennec sips at his wine. The dream from before is slowly fading, not forgotten, but less disturbing to his mind now that he has company.

“I really missed you, you know,” Evelyn says. “When you left, everything changed. It wasn’t just that you were gone. Father grew so quiet that he might as well have been a ghost. Mother would snap at us out of nowhere, or even worse, start crying. Me and Maxie did our best to stay sane, but man, it was hard.”

“Max seems very different,” Fennec says.

“Oh yes. I don’t know what the fuck happened, but after our little rescue attempt, mother sent him to the Chantry for a few weeks as punishment. He came back super-serious. And lately, father has been preparing him to take over all the family businesses, so it’s gotten even worse. Sometimes I manage to bring out the old Maxie, but not in recent memory.”

She sighs, then takes a large swig of wine. Some of it spills down her chin and she swipes it away with the sleeve of her shirt.

“I was really jealous of Emily for a while. I wished that it had been me who get sent to watch over you. But then I imagined myself in that pompous armor and I knew ‘tis was not meant to be,” she says, barking out a bitter laugh.

“So, what do you do nowadays? I’m curious,” Fennec says.

“Oh, I get around. Mother tried to get me to be a proper society lady, but have you tried taming my hair? And I helped dad with his business enterprises for a while, but it bored me to death. I even did a stint as a Chantry sister but was tragically expelled. So now I get to do whatever I want. Which is mostly hunting. And drinking.”

“Cheers to that,” Fennec says, though he’s still caught up in processing her words. They don’t paint a very happy picture.

If Evelyn notices his mood slipping, she doesn’t react. She raises her glass and clinks it to his.

“Enough about me,” she says. “What kind of magic did you get up to in the Circle besides the alcoholic variety?”

“Well, they started out with teaching me a bit of everything, but it turns out I’m rubbish at most of it. I have a weak connection to the elements, or so they said. But I’ve got a knack for healing magics. So, that’s the path I went down. I apprenticed to an enchanter called Lydia. She said that I was ready to be sent out to see real patients outside of the Circle in a few months’ time, but then the vote for independence happened. And you know the rest.”

“So, no fireballs?” Evelyn says with an over dramatic pout.

“Nope. I can light a candle, but just barely.”

“Show me! We could use a little light in here.”

Fennec hesitates, but Evelyn smiles at him, highlighting the dimples in her flushed cheeks. He fishes out one of the half-burned candles from his pack rather than using one from the wall sconces.

He places the candle in the palm of his left hand and holds it out in front of Evelyn. She leans forward, eager for a show. Fennec does a little drum roll on his thigh, then raises his hand to the candle and snaps his fingers. The wick lights up in flame.  

Evelyn claps her hands in delight.

“Oh, you have to show this to Cerise, no matter what mother says. She’ll love this.”

Fennec huffs out a nervous laugh. “I’m not sure I want to tempt fate. Children aren’t so good at keeping secrets, and mother seems tense enough with me in the house.”

“Oh, sod her. You shouldn’t have to hide like a little mouse in your own home. You’re free now.”

“That doesn’t mean I’m less of a danger.”

“You _just_ told me you’re shit at the dangerous stuff.”

“I think mother is more worried about possession,” Fennec says quietly.

For a moment, he can feel the chill of the despair demon lingering in the back of his skull.

“Pfft. I’m sure you’re too boring for demons to even take notice of you. Emily said you’ve always got your nose in some musty old book. Maker, I can _smell_ the library on you. No demon wants a whiff of that.”

“Why thank you, dear sister,” he says.

“I mean it. You’re _not_ dangerous for Cerise to be around. You should do as much of your magic around us as you bloody want. It’s a part of you. You should get to embrace it, just like I get to embrace drinking and Max gets to embrace being a stuffy old bastard.”

“ _I’m_ not scared of what I can do. But I have to respect that most others are, and with good reason,” Fennec sighs.

It’s only a half-truth. Some of his talents do terrify him. Yet, he keeps being drawn back to them, unable to avoid the curiosity burning deep within himself. The faint whisper that there is so much more to explore.

Evelyn scoffs. Then she fills up their glasses with more wine, draining the last from the bottle.

“It’s good you have you back,” she says, instead of arguing his point, though she clearly wants to. Her eyes still carry that defiant spark.

“It’s good to be back, if only for this,” Fennec says.

Evelyn’s face lights up into a smile. She leans against his shoulder and blows out the candle still burning in the palm of his hand. A few drops of wax remain on his skin after she puts the candle aside. She peels them away. Then she replaces his wine glass in his hand and clinks it together with her own.

Before dawn arrives, they’ve fallen asleep in a heap on the floor, tangled up next to each other like over-tired puppies.

…

Fennec wakes up again with a terrible crick in his neck. Evelyn is still snoring softly, her head tucked into the crook of his arm. She has one arm slung across him, and her hand clings to his shirt with an iron grip. Fennec sighs, silently cursing himself for letting them fall asleep on the floor. He takes a few moments to assess each numb muscle before carefully dislodging himself from his sister.

His movement doesn’t wake her, but she turns around and mumbles something unintelligible in her sleep.

Fennec manages to clean himself up a little and change into his spare set of clothes just in time to look somewhat presentable by the time there’s another knock at his door.

Outside stands the elven servant from the day before. Fennec feels awkward not knowing her name.

“Bann Trevelyan wishes to see you in his study,” the girl says, then gives a shallow bow and turns around to walk away with a quick stride.

“Thank you...” Fennec says, but she’s already turning the corner at the end of the hallway by the time the words leave his mouth.

He sighs, wondering if she’s always curt, or if he’s done something to put her off. It could be that his father has her running way too many errands and she simply lacks the time to be anything but efficient.

But somehow, he doubts it.

In any case he shouldn’t leave his father waiting. He hesitates in the middle of the doorway before deciding to let Evelyn wake up in her own time. She probably needs the rest.

His father is sat behind his desk with a huge pile of papers before him when Fennec enters the study. Bann Trevelyan looks up with a smile at him from behind his reading glasses.

He gestures for Fennec to take a seat on the chair opposite the desk. As he sits down, he’s reminded of being called into the First Enchanter’s office. The same tangle of nerves is twisting itself into a knot inside his stomach. But this time, he doubts he’s about to discuss either his academic or magical progress.

“Did you sleep well?” his father asks.

Fennec nods, then cringes a bit as the motion further upsets the crick in his neck.

“I hope you can get settled in with time. It’s a lot to adjust to, I know. For all of us. But I’m very happy to have you here again, my son.”

His father pauses, then takes off his reading glasses and places them on top of his pile of paperwork.

“I wish we could have a proper reception and invite the rest of our family and friends to welcome you home. But in the current political climate, it might be for the best not to call such attention to us,” he says.

“That’s fine,” Fennec says.  

“It’s only for your safety,” his father insists. As though he expects Fennec to feel insulted at this. That he has to be placated.

The truth is such a gathering would only overwhelm and embarrass him. He’s grateful not to have to be paraded in front of high society. To be judged as either a pariah or a peculiarity.

“But I want you to know that this house is yours, as much as it is mine,” Bann Trevelyan continues.  “All I ask is that you remain on the grounds for now. I know I can’t keep you cooped up forever, but I don’t want you out there on your own.”

“I understand,” Fennec says. “I don’t really have anywhere else to go, even if it was safe.”

His father gives a solemn nod.

“I wish it wasn’t so, but for now I have to put everyone’s safety first. With time, hopefully the world will adjust, and you will be able to reclaim your proper place in society. In the meanwhile, you will have a safe haven here.”

“Thank you,” Fennec says.

But all he can think of is that his father’s words are heresy. That such a devout man would speak out in what amounts to support of mage freedom is beyond strange. It might be that he is only referring to Fennec, that he’s made a convenient exception for his own flesh and blood.

If not, Fennec doesn’t know what to think.

“Emily tells me you are a healer. That’s a commendable pursuit. I’m proud of you,” his father says.

“I…thank you, father,” Fennec says, blushing under his praise.

He wants to protest, to say he’s only going along with what his teachers decided for him. That it’s not a calling, but a road set out in stone before him. All he’s done is to follow it.

But his mouth feels too dry to speak more than a few words at a time.

“I want you to keep nurturing your gift. I’ve set aside a space for you in our garden, to grow whatever herbs you want. Write me a list, and I’ll acquire anything else you need for distilling potions. I assume a staff should be commissioned as well?”

“I couldn’t ask for that,” Fennec finally protests.

It’s too much. Much more than he deserves. Than he has earned.

“Nonsense,” his father says. “Your brother has gone through many a sword, and your sister keeps a practical collection of both bows and daggers. Little Cerise gets almost anything she asks for. It’s only fair that I spoil you all the same.”

Fennec shakes his head. The knot inside his stomach has doubled in size and is edging upwards into his chest. Threatening to overtake him.

“I’ve been waiting for years to get a chance to provide for you again,” his father says. “To do more than read about your life from afar. Will you please let me?”

Fennec wants to shake his head again. It’s too much kindness at once, too much to be real. But he can’t be that cruel to the man in front of him.

No matter how much his insides scream at him not to trust any of the acceptance thrown his way.

His father smiles as Fennec nods his assent.

When he finally leaves the study, Fennec can barely breathe. He hurries through the hallways and stumbles up the stairs in a rush. Only when he’s enclosed within his old bedroom can he breathe again. He sits back down against the wall and pulls his knees to his chest.

Thunder is roaring in his chest, each spark calling a wave of nausea to his throat. He rocks back and forth, forcing back thoughts of carving himself open so he can reach inside and tear out the tangled knot of fear within. As if it’s a tumor. A tangible growth made up of every flawed thought and feeling he’s ever had.

But deep within, hidden in the eye of the storm, is a small glimmer of hope.

 


End file.
